


Family Ghosts

by blue_butterfly



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Insecurity, Self-Esteem Issues, also George is battling with his own insecurities, but it is there, father-son-moment, george tries to be a good stepdad, george x elizabeth, tender family moments, the george/elizabeth is only there at the very end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10422927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_butterfly/pseuds/blue_butterfly
Summary: On a quiet night, George has time to think - about his marriage, about himself, his feelings....until an unplanned incident forces him to also show them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The entire Warleggan family needs more love and appreciation. Well, save for uncle Cary, perhaps. So, let’s just pretend everyone’s nice to one another.

 

If all the legends of hauntings and ghosts were true, then George Warleggan was predestined to be the one person most likely to ever meeting one. As usual, he was wandering the corridors of Trenwith late at night, so quiet that he could have passed for a ghost himself. A single, small candle carried in a simple brazen holder lit his way. En route from his study at the other end of the building he crossed the gallery, heading for his private bedroom. Generations of Poldarks looked down upon him from the lofty heights of old portraits. From his position below, it always seemed like they were sneering at him, the intruder. And who knew what those dignified family veterans might whisper to one another once they were left in the peace of their own company again.

Hurriedly, George crossed the landing and left them behind. He had once again worked well past any reasonable time, as he did so often these days. Lately, the day had not enough hours for all the matters that had to be taken care of.

There was not a soul up and about at this time of night save for the master of the house himself and whatever wandering ghost his footsteps on the tufted carpet might disturb. Elizabeth had already retired hours ago. Part of him regretted not being able to join her, but there had been urgent papers on his desk that needed his attention more than his wife did.

In truth, he still wasn’t quite sure whether Elizabeth needed or wanted anything from him at all. She enjoyed his attentiveness, sure, and she was generally glad for his company, but encounters in the bedroom had been few and far between since their wedding night, and George always had the impression that Elizabeth seemed relieved more than anything else when he finally retreated to his own quartes. Needles to say, their private meetings were marked by a certain touch of awkwardness. Elizabeth was too much of a lady to make demands of any kind, and George….well, he had never learned how to voice intimate desires, and even though he craved her gentle embrace and tender touches more than any other physical contact, he didn’t quite know how to explain that to his wife.

Oh well, there was one thing he could do at least that would make her happy, and that was providing for her and for Geoffrey Charles. It brought him joy to make sure Elizabeth was taken care of, that she received daily presents from his hand and could indulge in all the luxuries a lady of her standing required, from new dresses to expensive tableware. It didn’t matter much that she was spending his money, he had enough and was earning more by the minute, and he had little fancies for himself save for what was needed for business.

That the boy received a proper education was particularly important to George. He had grown fond of Geoffrey Charles, had always been, even when the boy was still his god-son. He reminded George of himself in his youth, a shy, quiet boy who played by himself for lack of a sibling or companion, but also by preference.

And now he was the boy’s stepfather, a word that still sounded strange in his mind but left him with a warm feeling and a smile on his lips. His way led him past Geoffrey Charles’ chambers, a child’s realm hidden behind heavy oaken doors. George stopped for a moment, listening. Everything lay in quiet solitude behind the lavishly carved portals.

Maybe George should arrange for a set of rooms a bit closer to Elizabeth’s, so mother and son were not parted by almost an entire wing. Geoffrey Charles was very attached to his mama; it seemed unfair not to let him bask in her comfort while he still could. The burdens of growing up would be upon him soon enough as he transcended into adolescence. No one knew better than George that the carefree years of childhood would waste away too soon, making way to a future that left little room for personal freedom. He had not yet spoken to Elizabeth about it, for he was entirely unsure how to break the news to her (any way he tried, it would be the wrong way), but the moment for such aggravating news would come sooner or later.

Lost in his musings, George was startled from his thoughts when the sound of wailing cries and sobbing broke the silence, albeit subdued as if coming from….

Geoffrey Charles’ room.

It wasn’t loud enough to alert the nurse, or Elizabeth, or anyone else for that matter, but George was near and he wanted to know what was going on. The boy was having a nightmare most likely, so George lightly pushed open the door, knocking with his free hand as he entered.

“Geoffrey Charles?”

He met his step-son halfway to the door where he stood, shivering, in a too wide shirt and with tears streaking his cheeks.

“What’s wrong with you? What happened?” George asked softly, putting the candle on a nearby table as he stepped further into the room. Immediately the boy came running towards him, sliding little arms around George’s middle and burying his face in the folds of his coat.

“U-u-uncle Geeeeeoorge!!”

“What is it? Did you have a bad dream?” George went down on one knee to be able to look into his eyes.

“Y-y-yes. There w-w-were bad m-men ch-chasing after m-me, men with n-no faces….and then I w-woke up and the candle had gone out and it was d-d-dark…” He started to sob again, and George awkwardly hugged him close and let him cry for a while.

“I’m afr-afraid of the d-dark,” the boy hiccuped.

George rubbed his little back. His hands felt too large and he wasn’t sure he was doing this right as he’d never been turned to for comfort, but he needed to try as best he could. “It’s alright to be afraid, you know,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Everybody’s afraid of something.”

Geoffrey Charles lifted his face out of George’s waistcoat for a moment. “Really? Everybody?”

“Of course,” George nodded. Slowly, he stood, holding out a hand to the little boy. Geoffrey Charles slid his smaller hand into it and they walked to the bed.

“Your mama for example is scared of spiders,” he told his step-son while helping him up into the large four-poster. “Especially those ugly black ones with the long legs that come in from the garden. You must make sure to protect her from them, will you?”

The blond boy nodded eagerly while George pulled up the blanket and tucked him in.

“And aunt Agatha….” He couldn’t think of a single thing that would scare the old lady, so he quickly made something up. “She’s afraid of bugs, you know, those brown, flying, stinky ones that tangle in your hair.” He ruffled the boys’s feathery hair, making a buzzing sound. That actually made Geoffrey Charles giggle for a few moments.

“And you, uncle George, what are you scared of?”

“Me? Oh, hm…” _A dozen things_ , he wanted to say. _And none of them befit a man of my age_. In the end, he picked the most obvious one. “Narrow spaces. Anywhere I can’t move properly, you know, where it feels like you’re being trapped and can’t breathe. Those places scare me.”

“Is that why you never go down into the mine?” Geoffrey Charles asked with all the innocence only a seven-year-old could have.

George smiled and nodded, signalling defeat as if this were a game and he had just lost. “You caught me. It’s indeed the reason why I don’t like the mine. But sshht, don’t tell anybody. This will be our secret.”

Again, the boy was eager to agree.

Before George could turn the conversation towards other matters - sleep, for example - Geoffrey Charles suddenly had an idea.

“Uncle Ross is never afraid of anything!” He proclaimed, clearly proud of his other, more stalwart uncle.

 _One could possibly argue that if one were Ross’ wife, or his banker_ , George thought. Out loud he said, “You know, I think even uncle Ross is afraid. He’s just better than most at hiding it.”

“Oh?” The boy looked disappointed, yet vaguely intrigued. “Why is that?”

“Well,” said George and took a deep breath, brushing over the boy’s blond head again. “You remember that he was a soldier, right? And soldiers often have to act like they’re not afraid at all when in truth they are very, very afraid. But they have to appear brave on the outside. Because if an enemy knows they are scared, it will end badly for the soldier. He has to be brave for himself, and for his comrades, to keep up their spirit so they can win the fight. Do you understand that?”

The boy nodded gravely. “So, what is uncle Ross scared of, then?”

_Death. He’s scared of losing his loved ones. His beautiful wife, his son. After his daughter died, he was a near wreck. Of course George couldn’t say that to the boy._

“I don’t rightly know. I think you’ll have to ask uncle Ross yourself next time you see him.”

Geoffrey Charles nodded with sleep-heavy eyes. “Will do.”

“You should try and go back to sleep now, young man. Tomorrow will be another busy day, and young gentlemen need rest.” George wondered briefly if he should kiss the boy on the forehead, then decided that as a stepfather, such a gesture was not within his rights and it would remain Elizabeth’s privilege.

Geoffrey Charles yawned, mumbled some words of protest but closed his eyes obediently, bunching a corner of the blanket tight between his little fist. George waited a few more moments to make sure the boy was indeed asleep. Then he rose quietly, only the rustling of his clothes giving away his movement. And yet a small hand grabbed him by the wrist, and a tiny voice peeped from the pillows.

“What if the faceless men come back?”

“They won’t, I promise.”

“Can’t you stay, uncle George? Just in case? Please? Just this one time?”

A hundred replies shot through his head.

 _Aren’t_ _you_ _too_ _old_ _for_ _that_? _Don’t_ _be_ _childish_. _A_ _young_ _man_ _your_ _age_ _doesn’t_ _need_ _a_ _nanny_.

But all the memories of his own bitter childhood and its lonely nights were stronger. Alone in the dark, clinging to his pillow for comfort because no one was there to listen to his cries - that was not a fate he wished upon any child.

And so George took a deep breath, shrugged out of his coat and his boots and sat down again at the edge of the boy’s bed, ready for a sleepless night and a stiff back in the morning. But to his utter surprise Geoffrey Charles pulled at his wrist, insisting that he lay down next to him on the bed. How awkward this felt for George who wasn’t used to such physical contact, and how afraid he was that he would make some mistake or another, that he could accidentally hurt the boy or say something wrong because he was entirely not the right person to come to for comfort, what with his clumsy way of expressing emotions, and he was not fearless like aunt Agatha or uncle Ross, he was a coward and an intruder and….

The boy curled against him, his little blond head coming to rest at George’s shoulder. Feathery blond hair tickled his cheek. Hesitatingly, George put an arm around his step-son. The boy let out a content sigh and inched even closer, burrowing deeper into the warm nest created by his stepfather’s presence and entirely unaware of any conflicting emotions, ready to drop off into sleep’s embrace.

“Good night, uncle George.”  
“Good night, little man.” George whispered, petting blond hair with tender hands.

—————–

When Elizabeth came to the nursery in the morning, she found both her husband and her son sound asleep with a smile on their faces, and in their slumber she thought to notice a certain likeness in their profiles as if they were indeed father and son. She smiled, drew the blanket over their shoulders and placed a whispering kiss on their foreheads, deciding to let them sleep for a bit longer.


End file.
